


All the names I've been given

by FreyaLor



Category: French History RPF, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 17th century French politics, Assassination, M/M, Paranoia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 20:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17608781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: A birthday gift for a very excellent Richelieu afficionado.Palais-Cardinal, 1637.After the victory of Corbie, a nameless courtier appears to threaten the reputation of Captain de Tréville with secret messages he was never meant to find.Unfortunately for this courtier, by coming straight to Richelieu, he made a very bad choice of person.





	1. The trial of the late Sieur Saint Fort Lecoq

 

 

-”Eminence, slow down.

 

 

I freeze in my pacing along the bookshelves, spinning around to stare at Joseph.   
He _never_ says things like that.

 

Joseph can stand being dictated two letters at the same time, and still enjoy a cup of warm milk. Joseph can remember who sat at the King's dinner table in march fifteen years ago, list seventy-five of his informants in Ile-de-France alone, and most of all, he can follow my thoughts even when I get... carried away.

 

He is, since Mazarini still has a few things to learn, to this day the only one who can.

 

I drop the files I was shuffling through on the work table next to me and move towards him. A soft winter morning light is filtered by the frosted windows, and though it bathes my whole study in subtle, flattering shades of yellow, my friend remains a black crow perched in a field of gold. He’s holding my gaze in sour defiance, his quill suspended one inch above his paper sheet, his gnarled, solid body tense as if he was about to jump. When I’m close enough for my hand to brush his shoulder, I inspect the tired lines crossing his forehead with a concern, I fear, he doesn't welcome at all.

 

-”I am _not_ getting old.” He spits before I even open my mouth. “ _You_ are getting hectic.”

 

 

 

I bite my lips. _Hectic?_

 

There's a lot to be done, Joseph, I want to tell him. A whole lot in fact. The victory of Corbie has granted us an unique opportunity for publication, and there are thirty gazettes in Paris alone we must send articles to, adding slight changes in words or point of views so they don't look like they're only printing what I dictate.

The State has now replaced the Dark Ages in every province, trade and taxes are being regulated, laws standardized, nobility tamed, and never before the power of the King has been so absolute, but the price to pay for all those changes has been more than harsh for the people of France.

 

We cannot miss this chance to tell the common folk their sacrifice was justified.   
I refuse to be deprived of that one occasion to prove them all that _I was right_.

 

 

But I know better than to start an argument with dear Ezekielli. Those never end well for either of us, and I rely on him for many things.

So I keep a lenient silence instead, my fingertips grazing the correspondence paper he is using, feeling the soft texture of it, relishing its gentle hiss of luxury. Then, as a show of good will, I go the hearth to fetch him more warm milk, as there’s been a large jar suspended there especially for him since daybreak.

 

Ludovic, always lying in wait near the fire, starts meowing loud for his share of white nectar.

 

-”No.” I tut. “It's not for you.”

 

The grey, ferocious tomcat hisses in outraged disapproval, but still lets me pass by without clawing at my robes this time.

 

I fill the plain, sturdy _terracotta_ goblet Joseph stubbornly keeps using instead of my glasses, and asks him if he'd like to eat something. He grumbles a few unintelligible words, shaking his head vigorously, so I suppose it's a no.

 

-”Can we get back to work, then?” I try, cautious.

 

He rolls his eyes, but my dear friend, ever brave, ever patient, he nods anyways.

 

_Thank God._

I immediately rush back to the files, pick them up and start dictating again, we lost too much time already. There's work to be done. I cannot fail this. I need to make every journal in France claim that our victory was nothing else but God-given, a sign that the Heavens approve of the direction France has taken those last decades. I need everyone to believe the Lord has sent plague into the Spanish troops to show His support to the King in all his endeavours, and I need to do it now.

 

The people, they hate me so much already.

Outside, there outside, they all want me dead.

 

 

I need to prove, I need to show, or else I'll die _, or else I'll die._

 

 

Did I stop speaking? Why am I looking at those windows, the courtyard has nothing to tell me.

Joseph is watching me, expectant. _God, I did stop speaking._

I bite my thumb, flinch, enumerate twice in my head what remains to be done tonight, breathe deep and start again.

 

I feel myself shaking with vague terror, acute pain, and too much energy. I know where those surges of ...- _intensity_ will lead me. I am not blind to my curses, I know I'll be nailed to my bed when it'll be over, but I still welcome this vicious strength, because I need it.

 

Let it burn me alive, let it eat me raw for all I care.

There is so much, so much to be done.

 

_Outside, there outside, they –_

 

A knock on the door.

 

 

I growl in rage.

 

-”I ordered not to be disturbed!” I hiss over my shoulder.

 

-”Your Eminence,” Charpentier's soft voice rises from the other side of the study’s thick gates, “I wouldn't have dared if this gentleman hadn't assured me his business was of the utmost importance.”

 

I peek at Joseph in front of me. He has already dropped his quill and is warming up his hands around his cup of milk, a light of relief painted on his face, _oh, very well, you'll have your respite_.

 

 

I stride to the door and open it wide. Charpentier nearly jumps, blinking at me in panic. That man has known me for twenty years and he's still terrified every time I'm in that kind of state, _do_ _I look that fearsome really?_

 

I glance at my reflexion in the dark stained glass of my Cabinet of Curiosities. The formal robes don't really help I must admit. They're darker, massive, and by their heavy whispers of velvet and fur they almost sound alive sometimes. They're designed to make me look not entirely human it’s true, but my face, I fear, is the most alien thing in me right now. My eyes have once been gentler, my cheeks have once been smoother, and I forgot to have my hair cut for a while.

 

How lost he is now, the young, intriguing Bishop of Luçon.

He is dead and buried to this uncaring world.

 

Who stands now in that study, but the tool of a purpose?

France has eaten me whole, and turned me into a monument.

 

 

-”The name?” I snap, looking back at Charpentier.

 

-”Monsieur de Saint-Fort Lecoq.” The clerk says, and I blink.

 

I spin around again, throwing at Joseph still sitting at my desk :

 

-”Who the Hell is Saint-Fort Lecoq?”

 

Ezekielli frowns, and even from that distance I see his mighty brain set itself into motion, going through his infinite inner libraries of information. At some point he clicks his tongue, once, and his features smoothen up. He knows. _Miraculous man._

 

-”He's one of d'Epernon's nephews by alliance.” He grumbles. “Gambling debts. Unreliable.”

 

_Oh._

 

Most likely not an amiable visit then. Anything related to d'Epernon can only mean trouble, this family is a sickness of these lands. But if this Saint-Fort passed Charpentier’s desk, then he must have passed Jussac’s fifty Guards posted around the Palais, and he has been unarmed, searched, properly _gauged._

 

I guess it’s safe to hear what he has to say.

 

 

-”Send him in.” I grunt.

 

Nevertheless, before our visitor enters, I make sure to be standing tall by the fireplace, chin high, eyes veiled, and as if he understood my intention, Ludovic slides close and lies down at my feet, adding the picture of a sphinx to the message I mean to send.

 

When Saint-Fort walks in eventually, sweeping a curious stare around the study, he takes two steps back in raw fear the moment he sees me. _Good. I see I have made myself clear._

 

He's a thin, nervous child of twenty at most, dressed in the latest Gobelins lace, and that absurd shade of  purple I saw everywhere at Court this summer. He's visibly half-breed, Scandinavian no doubt, if I can trust those dovish blonde locks to be his own. He could be handsome, if he hadn't the marks of bad habits already stuck upon his skin.

 

By his eyes, I'd say liquor. By his hands, indeed, gambling.

 

He seems to be gathering his courage for a while, stuttering a few unrelated syllables before he gives me a stiff, overly rehearsed bow.

 

-”Your Eminence Generalissime.” He says with the most distasteful accent Limousin can produce.

 

He turns to Joseph, then, and performs something I have never seen before, halfway between a bow and crossing himself, _where the Hell does that moron come from?_

 

-“Father.” He greets. Joseph mumbles.

 

The boy turns back to me smiling, his theatrics far too grandiose to be natural:

-”My humblest apologies, Your Eminence, but may I speak to Your Eminence alone?”

 

Joseph chortles into his cup of milk, and I let out a sharp laugh. The _nerve_ of this mongrel.

-”You can speak in front of Father Joseph as you would to me.” I spit.

 

The provincial seems to hesitate, gauging my loyal friend like he would a loaded gun, and if I had some patience to spare, it is far gone by now.

 

-”State your business, Monsieur.” I order. “We are on tight schedule.”

 

 

Thirty gazettes before sunrise, I cannot fail this one more chance.

 

Out there, outside, they want me gone.

I need to prove, _or else I'll die._

 

 

Saint-Fort straightens his back and makes himself as wide, as self-assured, as important as he can.

Well, his curls might be arranged with elegance, his ribbons made of finest silk, but his bitten nails are still fidgeting with the rim of his hat as he struggles to look at me, and the sole of his left shoe is slowly starting to peel off.

 

He's a worm, a scrap of dust, so rotten inside that no matter how many layers of varnish and powder he might cover himself with, through the cracks the grime will always show.

 

You can't just decide to become extraordinary, lowlife.

You have to work for it _. You have to fight for it._

 

-”Your Eminence must understand the matter is delicate.” He mutters, and if my eyes don't roll to the ceiling, I bet a fortune dear Joseph's do.

 

-”Matters brought to me rarely are not.” I shrug.

 

-”Quite so.” The child nods, and clears his throat twice before he goes on. “Your Eminence is aware of course that after the unfortunate death of Lieutenant De Senzeille in Corbie, I have been honoured with the charge of Second Aid of Camp Marshal for six days straight at the siege.”

 

_Hah!_

No, child, I am not aware, and I don't care the slightest. I am First Minister of France, the unity of State depends on my command, and I don't have time to memorize the names of every temporary stable boy who's been told to clean a war camp for a week.

 

-”Well?” I sigh, not bothering to hide how bored I am.

 

I grab one of my files on the work table and start pacing in circles around the study once more letting the train of my robes hiss against the floor in the tones of bad omens. Shuffling through my papers, I pass near Joseph. He looks deeply amused by all of this, licking the last drops of his milk as if he was my fifteenth cat. Well if Ezekielli finds it funny, I don’t, and I intend to make that fact _unmistakable._

 

I slide behind Saint Fort's back, feeling with dark bliss a shiver of anguish constricting his whole frame, and slither in front of him again to glare at his contorted face above the rim of my documents.

The boy gulps loudly and stammers:

-”M-My menial tasks have led me to put things in order in the infirmary, you see, mostly by carrying the dead out to make space for the wounded. Your Eminence knows that plague, if it has decimated the Spanish troops, was starting to run among our soldiers too.”

 

 

Yes I know, stupid brat, _I was there_ , trying to hide most of the damage from the rest of the army, making five reassuring inspection tours a day with the King, constantly terrified to hear Louis start coughing in his turn. I know plague would have killed the French and Spanish all the same, I know it all too well, and those articles I was busy writing before you interrupted me were meant to make sure the people of France never does.

 

 

-”Yes.” I simply rasp, sliding back to the table, smashing my file upon it and picking up another.

 

 

-”Well, among the dead I had to take care of, I was surprised and saddened to find Romegoux, one of His Eminence's most trusted Guards, I learned.”

 

 

I stop pacing, my eyes shooting up from my papers to Saint-Fort.

 

Romegoux. Brave, devoted Romegoux.

If he wasn't as good a swordsman as Captain Jussac, he was the most efficient, discrete and reliable envoy I could think of. I always entrusted to him those messages that could never be found, and he performed his duties with continued, spotless success.

 

But sadly, I was told he was one of the first to fall sick after the Spanish started to catapult plague-infected clothes and linens straight into our siege lines. Romegoux had taken upon himself to pick them up and burn them, along with a few soldiers and Musketeers, and though I'm sure he has remained cautious, this plague has been _vicious_.

 

She took Romegoux away from me, along with three other red Guards, and I cried a whole night long for the cruel vicissitudes of war, hoping my prayers could at least guide their blameless souls to the Heavens they all deserved.

 

-”Were you and Romegoux related?” I croak, the memory of my Guard's safe, honest face blurring my eyes for a moment.

 

 

The boy shakes his head, fumbling in his doublet, and before I understand it I feel a rush of sheer terror gripping my insides.

 

-”No, not at all,” Saint-Fort says, “but as I was cleaning the body before repatriation, I did stumble on three very intriguing notes, hidden in the lining of his sash.”

 

 

**No.**

 

 

 

I steal a quick glance to Joseph. He thinks just the same, paling with every heartbeat.

 

 

Romegoux, my trusted courier. The one I gave my most secret letters to.

My messages about war, my messages about scheme.

My messages about death, _my messages about love._

 

Romegoux died with undelivered notes, how can it be I never knew?

 

I almost stagger backwards, gripping the table to stay upright, watching the blonde boy’s hands with bottomless dread, and when I recognize the unique colour of the papers he pulls out, I let out a pitiful whimper.

 

They’re all mine.

 

 

-”Most of them are covered in code,” the boy explains, “and I couldn't decipher them in a century, but there, on the back of the third one, you see, there is plainer writing.”

 

And then, to my absolute surprise, the purple-clad moron _hands them out to me_ with an innocent grin.

 

I hear behind me Joseph exhaling in relief, and once more I share his feeling. Saint-Fort of course doesn’t know a thing about categories of paper, and he cannot be aware those notes come from the Palais Cardinal, so whatever this idiot’s purpose is, at least, _thank God_ , it's not blackmail.

 

 

I steady myself with a deep breath, rush towards the boy and snatch the notes away from his hands. I wrote them all myself, and despite the code, I recognize their contents well enough.

 

The first message was instructions for Schomberg concerning the disposition of cannons along the siege line. I never thought he didn’t get my note, because he placed them just the way I wanted.

 

The second is the answer from my informant inside Corbie, scribbled on the back of my own inquiry for news. Again, as I didn’t see his reply coming, I only supposed the man had been touched by plague.

 

 

But the third, _oh Lord, that’s what I feared._

The third is of the most precious, most dangerous kind of messages I ever send.

The ones that have meaning only for me, the one that mean the whole wide world.

 

A message to Jean.

 

 

That code is me begging him to join me in my room, and let himself be taken care of for a while. I remember the anguished morning I wrote that note all too well.

 

 

I close my eyes for a second as I turn the paper over.

 

Saint-Fort said “plainer writing”, God, Jean, _no_.

 

Biting hard on the inside of my cheeks, I open my eyes only halfway.

 

God, help us.

 

_That’s what I feared._

Jean usually uses our code. He _always_ uses our code. 

 

And yet, in blurry, irregular letters on the back of my note, his cherished handwriting lies on three short lines, almost stopping my very heart.

 

 

_Cannot join you. De Roelle is dead. Only my regiment left to defend north gate._

_Hope my fighting for his cause will help my Choice forgive the way I abandoned the pleasures of his bed tonight.  Love, J._

The first line is his typical style, minimal, straightforward. The rest, on the other hand, is a kind of writing I might have read from him perhaps three times at most in our eight years.

 

Poor beloved Jean, the _state_ he must have been in to act so recklessly.

 

It is true, Corbie has been especially harsh on him. He lost five Musketeers to a horrid, excruciating death, and at the end of the fourth week he told me he was starting to feel alarming pain in his chest too. He didn’t tell me much more after that, and as our duties separated us for fourteen days I grew crippled with worry, hence my begging him to let us meet for a while.

 

When I received no answer to my invitation, I thought he was, as often, trying to shield me from his own despair, and while I spiralled further into anguish, that merciless war still kept me away from him until the day of the final victory, just after the signature of the peace treaty. There, when we finally could meet, I was so overjoyed to see him alive and well I didn’t mention my note once , merely running into his arms.

 

It turned out that after six weeks of a siege ravaged by plague, my beloved Jean has managed to be the only one to catch a simple cold.

 

Yet, back upon the day of that fateful message, he was probably thinking he was about to die in the same degrading, disgraceful manner his men had passed away. My dear Jean, who always wanted to die by the sword in glorious combat, was too upset, I suppose, for the usual precautions.

 

 

Did he notice Romegoux was sick? Did he guess our trusted messenger was about to collapse before he could deliver his daily notes and die in the siege camp infirmary, only to be taken away by this faceless, nameless child?

 

Obviously not.

 

 

 

I look back at Saint-Fort, does he know, has he talked, should I threaten, or should I bribe?

 

A black pit of fear is howling in my chest, but my body knows how to survive much more than my fragile heart does. While my mind drowns into an ocean of panicked calculations I instinctively keep a stern facade, locked in my default dignified stance, my feet steady, my face unreadable, and when Joseph walks close to me, gesturing for the notes, I pass them over to him without a twitch of my hands.

 

I hear paper rustling, and after a few seconds, Ezekielli groans a filthy string of profanities.

My eyes are unfaltering as they stare at the boy, but my old friend knows when I’m too lost in thought to speak, and wisely chooses to take over.

 

-“Did you show those notes to anyone else?” He rumbles.

 

 

The child shakes his head decidedly, lifting both hands in reassurance.

 

-“Of course not, Father. I thought this was a matter His Eminence alone could comprehend. This code, you see, it is a thing spies use. It is to His Eminence everything about spies should be reported to, isn’t it?”

 

 

-“Yes, boy, yes.” Joseph mutters, fiddling with the notes as if to test their authenticity, and, satisfied, swiftly burying them in his sleeve. “You did well.”

 

 

I sigh in relief, thinking for a while this is all the child has understood of those papers, but encouraged by Joseph's words Saint-Fort lifts his blonde head up, grinning like a petted dog, and dares a timid step forward.

 

-“Besides, even if you can’t find the spies, you can at least hang a heretic!”

 

 

My sigh chokes into my throat. 

 

Time lies suspended between the three of us for a while, and my hand leaves the table on its own will to grab the back of Joseph’s hood. Oblivious, radiant, and unbearably proud of himself, the child whispers as if he was the smartest strategist of the Court.

 

-“The last message, the one that isn’t coded, you see, I know who wrote it.”

 

_Dear God, please have mercy._

My hand clenches around the monk robe, and I avert my eyes to hide the shimmer of panic threatening to blur them.

 

-”Oh, you do?” Ezekielli breathes, feigning ignorance like only holy confessors can.

 

-”Yes!” Saint-Fort exults. “You see, the note mentions the regiment posted at the North Gate after De la Roelle died, well, I know which regiment it was, you see, because the Camp Marshal sent me to bring them tankards and bread once. They were the King's Musketeers, and they have only one superior officer. Captain Treville. _Jean_ de Treville. _J_ , you see _.”_

 

 

I sense Joseph's whole spine straighten in alarm, his breath hitching loud enough to be heard even by the boy, but the stupid, ecstatic provincial only sees it as admiration and keeps on talking, his cheeks reddening in nervous joy.

 

-”The note clearly mentions a male lover's bed, you see. As a dutiful Prince of the Church, surely  Your Eminence would be glad to rid the Christian King's entourage of a sodomite, above all one who has been honoured with His Majesty's close protection. Your Eminence wouldn't like to soil our beloved King's presence with the disgusting filth of this kind of perverts.”

 

 

 

 

I feel the exact moment when something snaps into my mind.

It's that one second, when he said “ _filth_ ”.

 

I admit I have been a bit lost in half-measures and compromises for a while, but when he spits that word with such hatred, such disdain, images of the precious, virtuous man he is daring to defile only fill my heart with blinding evidence, and chase away all doubt.

 

Let it be said that this has been the moment, the exact time of Saint-Fort Lecoq's death.

 

 

 

 

-”Of course. How providential and insightful of you, cher Monsieur.”

 

 

Joseph has a start and spins around. That soft, honeyed voice wasn't his. It was mine. There is no fear in my chest, no panic in my eyes. There is place for compromise or pondering no more. I release the black woollen fabric of Joseph's hood and join my hands upon my heart, lowering my eyelids, smiling ever faintly.

 

I walk, then, gently, slowly, towards the dead man, and murmur in the most amiable of tones :

 

 

-”You have done the Kingdom of France an incredible favour, Monsieur. The Holy Spirit has already blessed your soul as a reward I am sure, but concerning more ...- earthly consequences, I am sure you came in here hoping for some agreement?”

 

 

The corpse blushes, looks down at his decaying shoes and mutters something about not wanting to abuse my generosity. I only smile wider, passing a soothing hand on its arm, and amiably guiding it towards the door.

 

-”How about a small patronage of a thousand livres?” I caress. “Would that honour your noble deed?”

 

 

The remains of Saint-Fort stare at me in pure awe for a while, blurting out a few words I couldn't care less for. He looks satisfied with the price. Very well. I push him towards the exit, then, exchanging a brief glance with Joseph.

 

I don't need to explain, I don't need to speak. Ezekielli has accompanied me all my life, and knows perfectly that though I might be frightening when I'm upset, I’m only deadly when I smile. He knows Saint-Fort is already gone, and his brow knits in growing unease.

 

I'll deal with that later.

 

I lead the corpse past Charpentier's desk first, drowning it with praise and promises.

 

-”My clerk will be bringing you the gold in the hall this instant.” I purr. “ And while you wait, pass by my kitchens will you? Ask my cook to give you a bottle my best Bourgogne and a selection of eaux-de-vie from Cluny. Small incentives for such a brave Gentleman.”

 

I see a glint of raw greed spark in the dull eyes fixed upon me. Inclination to liquor. That's what I thought.

 

Not that it matters much anymore really.

 

 

The dead man bows atrociously low for me once or twice, then trots down the stairs to the kitchens humming a joyful tune. I keep my inhuman counterfeit smile for as long as he can see me, and never the slightest hint of doubt comes to throw a shade on its delighted, youthful, moronic face.

 

Of course, the late Saint-Fort Lecoq of the depths of Limousin has never lived in the Louvre, and obviously doesn't read pamphlets either.

 

He doesn't know who I am.

He doesn't know all the names I've been given.

 

He doesn't know whose lover he has betrayed.

Well, ignorance, as they say, is _bliss._

 

 

 

 

The second the corpse has disappeared below the ground floor, my face freezes into disgust, and I spin around towards Charpentier.

 

-”Give that man thousand livres in gold.” I hiss to his shocked face. “Don't worry, most of it will soon come back.”

 

With that, I rush back towards the study, throwing at the clerk with a snap of my fingers:

 

-”... And send me Jussac at once!”

 

 

I slam the door shut behind me and stride blindly across the room, only realizing I'm biting my thumb again by the taste of blood upon my tongue. I hiss in pain, forcing my hand flat against my stomach and whirl in front of the fireplace, unable to stand still.

 

-”Eminence.”

 

 

Joseph's gentle voice. I slow down, but I don't stop.

 

-” _Eminence._ ”

 

Only him can say that word like that. As if it wasn't a title or a salute. As if it was the truest, the most secret of all those names I've been given. He runs up to me and grabs my wrist in a rough, firm hand. Finally, I freeze.

 

He pulls out a handkerchief then, and wraps my thumb into it with gestures he shouldn't know so well.

 

-”Eminence, you know I am rarely the one to plead for mercy,” he whispers like a prayer as he finishes his care, “but Saint-Fort is barely twenty, and more stupid than harmful.”

 

I don't look at my friend's face. I know that tone he used, I could paint the features that go along without mistake. So I stare into the roaring fire instead, and find it tame and meek compared to that rage inside my heart.

 

Nobody touches Jean. Nobody even dreams about scratching his honour. I have vanquished cities, I have conquered miles of foreign land. I have designed mass destruction, I have ordered vicious torture, and I have seen much nobler heads roll in disgrace on the gallows.

 

Saint-Fort was a worm, a scrap of dust.

He'll be buried in the mud without a stone to bear his name before the sun rises again.

 

 

-”He drinks, and he gambles.” I growl. “As you have said yourself, he's unreliable, and precisely because he's young, he'd be unreliable for a long time.”

 

-”Eminence, I think he's married. He might have a family.”

 

 _Hah_. There talks the furious priest who once exhorted me for hours to give no chance of survival to the five thousand children of La Rochelle. Intriguing, really, how Catholic morals have always been so _supple_.

 

-”If Saint-Fort talks,” I hammer, my eyes still lost in the fire, “France loses much more than a forlorn widow and a few toddlers. If Saint-Fort talks, even only once, to anyone, the reputation of one of the purest, bravest men of France will descend into disgrace, and this noble man I'm sure, won't bear one single minute of it.”

 

The bandaged hand he still holds in his own is lifted to his chest then, and he gives it a pleading squeeze.

 

-”Eminence, there is no possible way those notes could be linked to you.” He breathes.

 

I let out a bitter laugh.

-”Joseph.” I say. “I wasn't talking about me.”

 

 

 

I feel him twitch in realization for a while then abruptly let go of my hand to walk away, throwing his hands above his head.

 

-”For God's sake Eminence!” he shouts in troubled wrath. “Must you go so far to protect this Musketeer, this...”

 

-”This _protestant._ ” I cut in, turning around to glare at him with venom in my eyes. “Come on. Say it.”

 

 

I know he never approved of us. He came to know because I can't hide a thing from him, and he tolerated it for the love of me, that's all. We argued and bickered about it a thousand times I swear, and though his mind never changed much, in the end, he always ended up dropping weapons.

 

Though he wishes I would behave a bit more like the Saint he wants me to be, he cannot bear to stand in the way of my rare sources of joy.

 

So in the end, it always ends up like that. Joseph sighs, rolls his eyes to the heavens, and lets his hand slash through the air.

 

 

-”Do as you must.” he grumbles.

 

 

I smile, predatory.

_Here ends the trial of the late Sieur Saint-Fort Lecoq._

 

Guilty as charged.

 

 

 

Jussac storms in a few minutes later, hand on his sword, eyes everywhere. As he sees nothing but Joseph trying to calm de down with a cup of herbal tea, he huffs in relief and stands at attention.

 

-”Your Eminence needs me?” He asks, taking off his red-feathered hat and bowing elegantly.

 

 

My tension instantly softens at the glorious sight he is. His uniform is so impeccable it almost shines, kept clean and sturdy by the fervent love Jussac has for his rank, his regiment, his charge.

 

There is wild, radiant pride in the way he wears this red cape of his, and by that, he reminds me of my beloved Jean far too much. Just like Jean, my Guard fears no blade, no gun barrel, no fight, no battlefield.

He might not yet have been covered with as much glory as Treville, but then again, he’s half his age, and in my opinion, Jussac’s sober, long-suffering Northern blood has nothing to envy Jean’s stormy, untamed Southern ways.

 

They’re both pretty much the same kind of man, and they would see it more, if rivalry and pride didn’t confide them to mindless duels and bickering.

 

 

I walk to him, appeased by the honest, untainted admiration in his stare. My dear Red Captain. He runs into the darkest of places, faces the grim of the Earth, sacrificing his youth and his sleep to the wretched snake I can be, only because _I ask him to._

Unconsciously, I hide my wounded hand into my _cappa_. I don't want to appear weak in front of him again. For reasons I cannot understand, this soldier looks up to me, and I owe him to at least try to be more than my sickness.

 

I offer my intact hand instead, and he takes it in his. It is something we often do. In his first years in my Guards regiment, he used to kiss my knuckles and release them just like anyone else at Court, but as time went by, Jussac became much more than a Guard, much more than a servant, and I told him he didn't have to lower himself like any other courtier anymore. He still decided, apparently, to keep the first half of the official gesture, and turn it into something more... intimate.

 

-”Yes, I have something to ask of you, Jussac.” I tell him, my tone a bit less stiff, no doubt.

 

-”Anything, Your Eminence.” He promises, lively, trustful, vibrant with the warm glow of his idealistic dreams.

 

He often forgets, I fear, that he devoted his life to someone not even remotely close to his purity.

 

 

-”In a few minutes there will be a man standing in the hall.” I speak with a nod towards the door. “Charpentier will be giving him a sachet of gold. I want you to follow him. The man gambles, and I have just made him rich, so it won't be long before he chooses a tavern of ill repute to lose his fortune to cards.”

 

Jussac's malicious green eyes glint in joy then, no doubt because he senses some kind of infiltration mission coming, and those are, I must admit, his best area of expertise.

 

 

-”What kind of information do you want me to find, Your Eminence?” He asks, eager, exalted, almost thumping.

 

And I am sorry, so sorry to disappoint him.

 

-”None.” I say, wincing at the way his smile collapses. “I don't want you to spy on him, I want you to kill him.”

 

 

His stare widens, and his grip on my hand twitches a little.

It's not the first time I'm asking this of him but I know how those unfair, lower deeds repulse him. They do remind him, every time, I fear, that he devoted his life indeed to someone far, so far from purity.

 

Poor young, virtuous Jussac.  
_Everything I touch, I corrupt with darkness._

 

 

The only thing I can think of, then, to make things easier for his faithful soul, is to cross his forehead and murmur words of absolution. He's still gripping my intact hand, so it forces me to do it with the bandaged one, and the look he gives me there is so benevolent it's almost agonizing.

 

-”Make it quick,” I add, my voice frozen by self-disgust, “make it clean, and bury the body. No witnesses no clue. Come back here when it's done.”

 

I don't feel the slightest remorse as I order Saint-Fort to be killed, it was a worm, a speck of dust, and yet, _and yet_. I am burned in hellish shame by the horror in the young Guard’s bright eyes and I move away from him as shadows are chased off by sunlight.

 

But his hold of my hand remains steadfast, and instead of letting go of it, he gives it a gentle tug, drawing my attention back to him.

I slide back close, intrigued by his soft features hardening, going from doubt to sheer resolve, and fascinated, perhaps, by a lock of dark hair falling across his neat jawline.

 

 

-”For France, Your Eminence.” He states and I know what it means.

 

It means he thinks my secret reason for this crime is the salvation of this country. He thinks, dear romantic soul, that this sacrifice of one life will preserve France, the King, the State and the true faith, and though in my eyes saving my lover’s honour is no less glorious a purpose, I owe him as much truth as I can say.

 

-”No,” I gently correct him then. “For me.”

 

And thought I expect him to frown, the precious soldier simply smiles, letting go of my unwounded hand to grab the other one. It is on the bloodstained bandages around my finger that he lays that formal kiss in the end, whispering against the soft fabric:

 

-”To me it's the same thing.”

 

I bite my lips on a whimper.

 

With that, the Captain of my Guards steps back, bowing solemnly, and spins around in a flash of red cape to stride towards the door.

 

As his hand reaches the door handle I call, almost against my will:

 

-”Jussac.”

 

His green eyes shine like will o’ wisps over his shoulder as he turns his head to me, and on the shelf next to him Soumise, the fairest cat of them all, hisses in bitter jealousy.

 

-”Be safe.” I breathe.

 

-”Always.” He promises.

 

The door clicks shut after him.

 

 

***  


	2. All the names I've been given

 

 

 

By the time Jussac comes back, break of dawn is warming up the frozen roofs of Paris, and _of course_ , I can't get up from my armchair anymore.

 

After he left the study for his gruesome mission yesterday night, I stood there in silence for a while, strained and shivering, finding ten solutions to ten different ways my plan could fail, but even when all loose ends seemed tied, every odd weighed, every possibility pictured, fear and anguish were still crushing my nerves.

I realized that I was panting, my hands itching to be bitten, my deranged mind calling for my own blood like the sweetest of medicines, and how I cursed those surges of devouring turmoil, I know too well where they lead me. I knew that soon enough I'd be shaking like a leaf, whimpering at the slightest candlelight, incapable of basic thought.

 

But for as long as it would last, once more, I welcomed this dark strength, because I needed it.

 

Let it burn me alive, let it eat me raw for all I care.

There is so much, so much to be done.

 

_Outside, there outside, they want me dead._

_Everyone, everyone wants me dead._

I shivered and spun around, taking the reins of my own madness, steering it towards my purposes.

 

Making my curse useful at least, since I couldn’t escape from it.

 

I started looking for my files upon the table, and Joseph behind me hissed something foul about my sanity. I didn't spare a glance for him. We both knew he had only two options, either sitting back on that desk and help me finish our work in seven hours, or leave me alone to finish it all myself it in twelve.

 

Eventually, ever brave, ever patient, I heard him sigh, murmur a prayer for my health, and sit back at his work with a groan.

 

Ezekielli, my friend, my support. The extension of my own hand.

 

 

We sent our instructions to the Gazettes around dinnertime, as Joseph accepted to eat dried meat and bread only if I shared half of his plate. I smiled and I ate, but it still didn't soothe my distress. My heart was hammering in my ears, so loud I almost cried, I felt cold and afraid, _afraid of everything._

 

So I harshly ordered Joseph to burn the three notes in front of my eyes, then and there, and with a narrowed look at my eyes, recognizing the throbs of headache no doubt, he obeyed without a word. I watched the papers burn with silent intensity, devouring every second of it, carving it into memory, because I knew doubt would try to find his way to my mind as lack of sleep would pervade it.

 

The notes burned to thin white dust, and despite watching it dance like fireflies over the flames, I was still suffocating with worry.

I know _, I know_ , that every year my curses are getting worse.

 

Outside they may all want me dead.

_But inside lies what will kill me._

 

 

My dear Ezekielli insisted upon making another bandage for my hand before he left, and I suspected it to be meant to prevent me from biting the same spot again more than anything else. While he tried his hardest to make his dressing unbreakable, he breathed a few prayers as usual, using that low, monotonous voice he knows can help me relax.

But I recognized in his Latin more atonement for the murder I just ordered than reminders of God's undying love.

 

Hopeful, devout Joseph, does he really think this could save me from Hell?

 

God can forgive the hand that holds the blade, and grant Jussac his fatherly care, but I doubt He will have the same mercy for the man who thought, planned and ordered that mortal sin.

 

That one sin, _and all the others._

 

 

 

Joseph left, forcing out of me a promise to sit and rest, but when he walked out the door, I'm afraid I did none of that.

 

My mind was howling, my heart hammering.

I saw no peace, no comfort, only blurred lines and possibilities.

I was shaking, whining, eaten alive, only kept on my feet by the dark pit of worry in my chest, and _oh, afraid, so afraid._

 

Afraid of everything.

 

 

So instead of sleep I opened five of the most important files of State business at hand on my desk, sprawled all their contents all around the room, and started to verify each and every piece, each and every paper, twice if needed, until my eyes burned.   
I wrote margin notes on my own work, destroyed and rewrote everything I found a flaw in, aligning five more ideas to each list of twenty I already had, listing names, finding places, writing orders, sealing secrets.

 

 

The confirmation notes from the gazettes began to arrive after vespers, and when I had all of them, my knees started to give up on me, my hands shaking too much to hold a quill. I know the signs well enough. I know when to surrender to them before I am found, undignified, fallen in a shapeless heap upon the floor.

 

It does happen often enough.

 

I threw a few logs into the fire then, lit three candles not one more, and reluctantly let myself fall in my armchair.

 

I was still there, staring into the flames, a thousand empires built and destroyed inside my mind with less and less coherence, feeling my surge of strength slowly replaced by pain and despair, when Jussac slid back into the study.

 

 

May it be by Charpentier or his own knowledge of me, the young Guard must have known the state he was likely to find me in, because he didn't blink in surprise at the darkness of the room, and looked for me straight away in the armchair next to the hearth.

 

 

 

I hide my hand again and try to stand, plastering a fake blank stare upon my face, but there’s no point. I see his deft silhouette dance around the piles of books, the scattered files, the wide table, even the trunk where I keep my blank paper, and I remember Jussac knows this place well enough to navigate through it without a light.

 

He knows this place as he knows me.

 

So I remain in my armchair, still rubbing a quick hand on my eyes in the faint hope of wiping off my exhaustion, and greet him with a gentle nod instead.

 

-”Your Eminence.” He whispers, taking off his wide hat and kneeling next to me.

 

I offer my hand. He takes it in his. He won't kiss it.   
He's not like anyone else, _I am quite sure he'll never be._

 

 

I wish I could say something nice, I wish I could compliment his loyalty, his voice, or the perfect state of his uniform, but I see no peace, no comfort, only blurred lines, _and flashes of pain._

 

-”Is it done?” I ask, feverish, gripping his solid fingers.

 

 

He doesn't reply. He never does, not for this kind of things.

He just nods to himself, to both of us, to God above, and with his free hand, he searches his doublet. He pulls out a refined silk handkerchief, then, in that absurd purple Saint-Fort was obviously fond of.

 

I don't have to ask to know it is the child’s.

 

Jussac wordlessly drops the handkerchief on my lap, and as it unfolds, despite the dark I can see quite clear it's drenched in blood.

 

There _, only there_ , I exhale a liberated sigh.

This is how my young Guard tells me my will has been obeyed. _Well, at least for this kind of things._

 

He brings me back the dead man's handkerchief or a piece of the corpse's shirt and shows me the stains made by his bloodied sword as he wiped it clean with the stolen fabric.

That technically proves nothing, but Jussac has shown it many times to be enough.

 

 

-”You were right. “The Guard’s soft voice explains. “He went straight to the Carcassès Tavern. He hadn't been in for one hour that he was already bragging about the patronage of a very important man, and the dirty secret he had sold him. I slit his throat a few minutes later as he went outside to pee. Wrapped him in a blanket, took him on my horse and buried him in the marshlands of Vincennes. No one saw me. He still had your gold on him, by the way, I gave it to Charpentier on my way back here.”

 

I nod. Jussac knows his business.   
_I am quite sure he always will._

 

 

 

 

I look down at his wistful face. His full lips are tense to a thin line, and his smooth brow is marred by raw torment. His hand is still wrapped around mine, and he doesn't look like he wants to get up anytime soon.

 

My Red Captain is feeling awful, and I am responsible for every scrap of it.

 

 

I don't feel the slightest remorse for the death of Saint-Fort, it was a worm, a speck of dust, but for my Guard's unease, I feel horribly guilty.

 

So I pick up the disgusting handkerchief, throw it in the fire, and find strength for a sweet smile as I propose:

 

-” Would you share some of my tea, Captain?”

 

His bright green eyes shoot up to me, and he looks once more like my lovely, devilish Soumise. I offer him a chair, and he gladly sits, giving my hand a small squeeze before he lets go.

I get up, then, slowly, wincing in pain, measuring how my fit of grandeur has left my body devastated and bloodless. I fetch another pot, suspended above the fire next to the empty jar of milk, and pour him a warm cup of Carmelite lemon balm.

 

-”It will not chase away the nightmares,” I tell him, noncommittal, “but it'll help you fall asleep.”

 

I am quite sure he knows exactly what I mean, but he thanks me all the same, gathering the cup in his fingers, and I notice he allows himself a long shiver of appeasement. Dear Jussac is a troubled man I know, remarkably brave in his ability to hide it, and though between what I cannot tell him and what I don't need to, I won't be speaking a lot tonight, there is a shared suffering between us, tacit since the very first days, that spares us the burden of conversations.

 

We both watch over the fire in silence, then, until long after sunrise, and at some point, Ludovic, the most irascible of my beasts, passes between our seats. He plays and scratches around the lower rim of my robes as always, fighting the brocade with ever renewed resentment, but afterwards, when he has successfully pulled a few red threads out of the embroidery there and I invite him on my lap for a least a reconciliatory purr, he turns his tail on me and hops on Jussac's thighs as if it was the most natural of things.

 

My face, despite fatigue and melancholy, must have been quite a sight, because I am blessed with my Guard's first spark of laughter like I would be by God's own forgiving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I carefully avoided Treville for three days after that.

 

 

I woke up sore and confused a few hours before dinnertime, in that very same armchair next to a dying fire. I blinked, and whimpered as the panic of the day before came back rushing at me.  _Jean,_ I thought, _I must protect Jean_. Then I remembered it had been done, just like the rest of an inhuman amount of work, since I had been... agitated again.

I noticed I was wrapped in one of my bedroom's blankets, and it reminded me of that soft silence shared with Jussac around the break of dawn. I must have fallen asleep at some point, and the good soldier went away without making me up.

 

 

I made a mental note for another offer for a reward he would surely refuse, and got up to call Charpentier for a bath.

 

My hair hadn't even dried yet when our new courier, Mont-Guibert, brought me a note from dear Jean, dutifully coded of course and so plain, so short as always, that I didn't even need our reference bible to decipher it.

 

He had written : _“ Would tonight be alright?”_

 

And though my body and soul yelled for the comfort of his presence, I had a glance at myself in the darkening windows and my reasoning forbid me let him see me in such a state.

 

I'd need at least two full nights of sleep. _Lord, help me_ , I prayed, _what day are we?_

I fetched the bible, and calculated a few words:

 

 _“Sunday will be better, if I may”_ I replied on the back of his note. _“Reasons of State : the only ones as important as you.”_

_“Yours, A.”_ I signed, and handed the note back to Mont-Guibert.

 

 

 

 

I thought there was no point, after all, in intriguing or worrying my beloved Captain, and by the smile on his handsome face as he strides into my study tonight, it seems I was quite right.

 

 

He slides the panel of the hidden door close, a passage only he has the key of, and turns to me with a gleeful, eager grin. It has been merely a week since we had our last secret encounter, but his look on me is famished all the same, like a man coming back from war, which after all, he always is somehow.

 

As he walks close I give him something he likes. The sight of me standing tall, rested and composed, eyes clear, hands intact, a bit haughty, but never vain, the waves of his favourite robes pooling around my feel like a handful or carmine snakes. I drew all curtains close, and I don't like too much candlelight, but I still see in his eyes exactly how much he appreciates, and when his arms slides around my waist, I very much feel it too.

 

-”I see you're in good shape.” He rumbles into my neck.

 

I let out a pleading whine, as always, as forever.

 

 

 

He might not agree with me upon that, but no matter how powerful, how wealthy, how _supreme_ I might become, I'm not sure I'll ever match that magnificence in him he's barely aware of.

 

His splendour is not made of red silk and quick wits like mine could be, it's something much simpler, and yet difficult to pinpoint. It lies in the confidence of his stride, the honesty of his face. It lies in the way he extends his hand, like he's offering peace to someone he could fight. It lies in the scars around his eyes, telling legends of his struggles, his tenacity.

 

Jean de Treville's grandeur comes the Age of Castle towers and tournaments, _amor cortois_ and slain dragons, virtues, honour, and loyal knights.

 

Ages I dedicated my days, my breath, my work destroying to the last trace.

 

 

I bite my lips, lower my eyes.

How can he kiss my neck that way, I am so far, _so far from purity._

 

I am the devil, I am the plague, the red curse of this Palace. They all hate me, of course they do, I only open my mouth to betray or to deceive, I only sign a letter to execute or to exile, and Lord have mercy, everything I touch, I corrupt with darkness.

 

I should tell him what I have done. I should tell him I never got the uncoded note, back then in Corbie. He might thank me, he might be mad, he might feel guilty, worried or relieved, I am not sure, but at least I would be true to him.

At least I would be a little less of a machine of forgery.

 

I'd be closer to his virtues, one step towards more purity.

 

 

-”The King has visited the garrison today!”

 

But he smiles, my Knight, my love, he smiles like he so rarely does, beaming, intense, almost childish. He gently claims my mouth, hungry but inattentive, obviously torn between desire and exaltation, and as he pulls away to gesture towards Paris with his both hands, enthusiasm seems to be winning.

 

-”He promised he would personally thank a few of my men after Corbie,” he explains, overjoyed, “and I know you reminded him of it at least twice, thank you, Armand.”

 

He rushes back to me for another ravenous kiss, then strides to the cupboard to serve us wine.

 

 

-”Today he announced himself at noon.” He goes on. “God, we have been preparing this for weeks. The garrison was sparkling, I hadn't seen it that way in ten years. We had yellow sand brought straight from the Rhine for the exercise yard, and brand new coats to replace the oldest ones.”

 

He hands me a glass, his eyes far too lost in his jubilation to notice mine are tearing up.

 

-”When Louis arrived I had my whole regiment aligned in Guard of Honour, but he said 'none of that, Treville', and he dismounted to _bow_ for all of them. Can you imagine how they felt, Armand? The King saluted them as equals, as brothers. Athos almost sobbed, the good man.”

 

He gulps down half of his cup, coughs a little, laughs, and starts again, his dreamy eyes turned towards his dear garrison, as if he could see it through closed curtains.

 

-”He asked to be shown around the armoury, the dorms, the chapel, even the kitchens, and shared my men's midday meal. Aramis, of course, got his attention then, because he's the best talker of them all. But when he asked for a few men to demonstrate some of their sword-fight moves, he asked Athos and young D'Artagnan, along with five other men. He didn't fight himself, since he's still exhausted by his latest gut infection, but I swear he bloody looked like he wanted to!”

 

I find myself smiling despite the self-loathing in my heart, truly, I can't help it. His bliss is so genuine, so blinding it's contagious, and I am sincerely glad his regiment finally got the attention it deserved.

 

My beloved Captain is one of the very few men in Court I tolerate to share the King's gratitude with.

 

 

 

-”Before he left,” Treville goes on, “he distributed the rewards he promised after Corbie, a thousand livres in gold for five of my best men. But he also gave me a pension of nine thousand a year, for my fifteen years of good deeds, he said. I'd never have expected that...

 

 

His joyous face abruptly frowns, and he turns away from the windows to narrow his eyes at me.

 

-”Wait- “He whispers. “Did you know about it?”

 

 

I nod gently.

 

-”I have been suggesting it to Louis for as long as you've deserved it.” I tell him.

 

 

Well, I can't lie all the time.

 

 

-”How long, exactly?”

 

 

-”About eight years now.”

 

 

-”That's before we...”

 

 

 

I give him a serene shrug. I saw this man's merit long before that night in La Rochelle where I realized I couldn't breathe freely without his touch. The Musketeer regiment is widely underpaid,  no more than half the wages I give to my Guards and though it may ruin the only reason why I am able to find volunteers for my own protection, the King had to do something about it.

 

So, yes, I suggested a pension for Treville before we became lovers, and I am quite vexed that he seems to find it so surprising, but he smiles, my Knight, my life, and I don't think I'll hold it against him.

 

Above all if he lays his cup aside and rushes to hold my hands like that.

 

-”Armand, it's bloody wonderful.” He laughs, delighted. “I'd have fought all the same, all those battles from Montauban to Corbie, even without the promise of a single sou, you know it alright? But now that money is here, well, it means I'll finally buy lands for my family, make some value to my name. Lord, this miracle redeems, at last, the horrors of that siege.”

 

 

A dark cloud of agony passes in his clear blue eyes, and I almost whimper for his pain. My thumbs start stroking slow circles on the back of his hands, and I look for his stare, make him look into mine, trying to tell him he's home, he's fine, he's safe.

 

Yes, I am the curse, I am the plague, I am the Red Beast, they want me dead.

But there is no man more powerful than me but the King from Calais to Pignerol, and I swear to you, no one will ever damage even the echo of your name.

 

If the Lord lets me breathe, if sickness lets me think, I won't let anything happen to you, and if I have to kill a thousand children like Saint-Fort, well, so be it.

 

_So be it._

 

 

He finds my eyes, his brow softens, and he even finds the energy to chuckle, my brave, unstoppable knight.

 

-”Not everything has been bad though.” He muses. “I've seen five of them die it's true, good men, loyal soldiers, fathers, brothers, but my Musketeers have shown me once again how courageous, how fearless they were.”

 

I see horrid memories battling more cheerful ones in the stormy sea of his stare, and, his emotions echoing through my own heart as they have done for seven years now, I can't help laying soft kisses along his cheek.

 

 

-”They sang, you know?” He breathes, passionate, heartfelt. “During the last weeks of siege, they sang every night. They sang Tavern songs, they sang lullabies, it didn't matter. They sang with their feet deep in the mud, next to their fallen comrades coughing to death on filthy stretchers, they sang to the heaps of infected garbage sent by the Spanish on the top of their barracks. They sang loud enough to be heard beyond the walls of Corbie, so that the Cardinal Infant's scum knew he needed to do more than that if he wanted to scare away good soldiers of France. It was sad, Armand, it was dreadful, but in a way, it was grandiose.”

 

 

His eyes are wet, and I'm not sure I have seen that five times in all my life, but there is no sadness, no despair in those tears. There's only a mighty wave of devotion, of awe, of yearning, so devastating I barely dare to breathe too loud as he lifts my hands up to his lips and add, fervent, entranced.

 

-”And you, of course, you, my miracle in red, riding out every day with the King to show your support to the troops. I didn't know, back then, that what I had caught wasn't the plague, so I didn't want to get too close, but I watched you, I swear, every time, from a remote place above the hill. How I admired you, barely sleeping, always watchful, minding the alignment of cannons, supplies, outposts, negotiations and the King's own doubts at the same time, never once showing weakness, though I know the price you always pay after it's all over.”

 

 

Oh dear God it was for me. This devotion, this yearning, it _is for me._

I am trembling I fear, my breath too short, my voice smothered, but there is no sadness, no sadness at all in our quiet, but ardent embrace.

 

He is happy, my knight my love, he is happy and so am I.

 

 

-”I have been proud of you, Généralissime Duc et pair de France. I have been proud, so proud that you are mine.”

 

 

I should tell him what I have done.

I'd be closer to his virtues, one step towards more purity.

 

 

But in fact, God witness _I'll say nothing._

 

I have no right to ruin his bliss, his pride, his peace of mind at last.

If I corrupt everything I touch, well, God witness I won't touch that.

 

_I'll say nothing._

 

 

 

I’ll let my tongue pass on my lips instead, lower my eyes in beckoning.

I’ll drop my shoulders low without a word, and lean backwards against the desk.

I’ll cross my legs in sluggish grace, and let my robes highlight the rest.

I'll say his name that way again, and it will be his undoing.

 

He will growl and he will grab, he’ll have no choice, I know him well.

I know exactly what puts an end to his thinking, what blurs his mind, ignites his skin.

He will stroke and he will kiss, he’ll have no choice, I know how to cry out just loud enough to drive him mad.

 

He’ll take me there on that table if he’s too hungry for the bedroom, and while I beg and while I please, I’ll make him forget about Corbie. As Jean de Treville moans in bliss against my shoulder, Saint-Fort Lecoq will be buried twice, under the mud of Vincennes, and under the weight of oblivion.

 

 

Right there into the fireplace, right next to us as we’ll make love, the flames will dance, the flames will roar.

 

Just like me, they’ll blaze and burn until darkness claims them once and for all.

Just like me, without a word of all the things they have destroyed.

 

 

While I remain, enemies will die empty-handed and forgotten

Woe betide those who don’t know all the names I’ve been given.

 


End file.
